[I realized today that it's been almost a year since I've posted anything. I've stored bits and pieces of thoughts and experiences in this year. So today I dusted a couple of them off (you may notice some time references that aren't quite right :) ). Hope you will enjoy. ]
She is in the bathroom humming. Her dad used to hum when he was happy-- a gay tuneless melody.
But she hums Beethoven. Why does she have to be so wonderful today? It would be so much easier if
she were spitting vitriol and telling you that you're wrong about something. You take her to
the airport and watch her go through the security gates.
You are weeping so you hide behind a pole so that she doesn't see you. You come out of the train
station and decide to walk the rest of the way back. The day is spectacularly beautiful.
Low clouds hover over the mountains, the sky is a cloudless bright blue, and a cool gentle
breeze blows through the streets. You get home, take off your clothes and get in bed. Sleep for
at least 3 hours. Wake up, read the saddest of books, something about children, Jews and World War II.
You know that only Neruda and your mother can possibly understand how you feel.
Weep a little more for what you did to her (leaving, as your child is now leaving you).
Make soup. The soup should involve lots of chopping. And lots of stirring. Minestrone is a good choice.
Cook it for a while and turn off the stove. Climb back in bed. Get up and eat the soup. If it tastes
good, eat some more. Go back to bed. Wake up at 4:30 a.m. and call to see that she
made it back to Colorado okay. Put away the soup you left on the counter. Go to bed and finally rest.
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